


Faces Without Names

by Kalamari99



Series: Amelia and Victoria’s London [2]
Category: Fallen London | Echo Bazaar
Genre: F/F, Snuffer
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-28
Updated: 2018-09-28
Packaged: 2019-07-18 12:56:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16118939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalamari99/pseuds/Kalamari99
Summary: My very first commission, and the first chapter in series of Fallen London vignettes for my friend ImprobableIntellect! Featuring his OC Amelia, and his take on the Devout Intriguer, Arabella.





	Faces Without Names

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ImprobableIntellect](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImprobableIntellect/gifts).



> Note: Arabella is heavily based on the canon Devout Intriguer.

“You know, it’s improper for a lady to show her wardrobe like this.”

Arabella wore a smirk on her face- the most devout face she owned, as she spoke, but her wife seemed unamused. Her expression was always slightly difficult to read, due to the Cosmogone barrier that shielded the windows to her soul from the world around her. There were moments when the facade slipped; either literally, as she tilted her glasses down or otherwise lost a solid grip on them, or more figuratively, when she let a slight amount of emotion shatter the stoic mold her lips so often fell into. Around her, the mask came off, but where as she had mandibles and the red face of one of Stones children, her favorite Screwsman had a smile warmer than the Sun above beneath hers.

It was a shame that she had not seen it at all this day.

As a Snuffer, she was no stranger to reading the stories one only tells with their face. It was a skill they all learned early in youth, and those unable to pick up on the ability quickly died just as fast. One needed to both see the intent and thoughts of others, and mimic them just as effectively. It was a subject always at the back of her mind, a sort of quasi-conscious layered beneath every breath she took. To have it be unconscious would be a death sentence; if she allowed herself to truly use her facial expressions as Stone intended, she would appear as a ghastly mimicry of a person. More than she already was, that is.

“Here we are. Take a look at them, I don’t bring them out often.” her voice cheered as the key clicked into the lock. Amelia moved closer, seemingly hovering over Arabella despite the latter's height advantage. She was by no means short, in both stature and presence, but she was no Snuffer. Like all Cousins, Arabella was naturally inclined towards a towering build, yet she still felt so small next to her wife. Normally this was a welcome relief: life was a game of faces, doubly so, given her choice of occupation. Her light haired love had a sort of intensity, a sort of emanating strength around her that seemed to make all seem lesser in comparison. She basked in that glow, and took comfort in it, knowing that for every lie and falsehood she created just by wearing skin that was not hers, there was someone waiting for her at home who she could be honest with. 

So why was it that the company of the one who brought her comfort created such tension now? No amount of training from either her faceless heritage or her cloak and dagger ways could have prepared her for this. For a moment, she almost thought that her Amelia was gone, replaced as she had done to so many in the name of London, but that thought was quickly cast aside as she scanned her wife. No one could copy that powerful air that was uniquely hers. It was still there, as it always had been, but it seemed twisted, sickened, almost turned inside out on itself. Instead of projecting her intoxicatingly potent will outward, Arabella could feel it go inward, compressing deep inside her fellow sneak. To an outsider, the Forthright Screwsman wore dread like a cloak. To Arabella, she held a sort of quiet, unwavering devotion. Yet in this moment, the spy was forced to look past the face that told her nothing at all, and simply trust her feelings that something was eating away at her wife like a disease eats away at the body.

“So what do you think?” she chimed in, hoping that even the smallest of distractions would help break the icy chill that froze the conversation solid. 

“They’re beautiful.”

“You don’t need to flatter me. I know the mustachioed one likely isn’t to your tastes, Ame.” she laughed, gently picking up the mask.”

“It’s...nice.” she mumbled, with all the excitement of someone having their teeth pulled.

“Do you really think so? I had no idea your tastes were so...masculine.” the blue eyed inhuman teased, draping it over her current mask like a child wearing a sheet on Hallowmas.

“Now, wait-” her darling protested softly, the slightest bit of embarrassment infecting her tone.

“Is this something you discovered about yourself recently? If so you’re very lucky you chose me, I can easily accommodate you. I don’t know how awkward this sort of thing would be in a human marriage.”

“Ari, please…” the glasses wearing thief giggled, tiny, quiet noises that were hardly audible. The mold was starting to crack now, a fact that only fueled Arabella further. Seeing Amelia smile made her own grin grow thricefold. 

“Really, you should count your blessings. If I was human, then you’d have to ask me to wear a moustache much like this one in private.” the Intriguer continued, already altering her stance to appear a little more mannish; puffed chest, broad shoulders, the works. This was when her quasi-consciousness blended in with the more primal unconscious; even when she could not feel the face of the academic upon her true skin, she still sinked into the role with surprising ease. Admittedly, this was one of her least favorite faces; not just because she prefered being Devout over being Academic, but for the simple fact that the preserved hair of the scholar itched like nothing else. But if she could make her lover happy for even a moment with this sort of clownish act, it was worth the annoyance. 

“Though, that still is possible, if you wish, my darling. I don’t quite know why you’d like me to have an overgrown caterpillar on my most feminine face, but I have worn stranger ensambles in the past.”

“You have not.” she countered, fighting the urge to continue laughing, and obviously failing.

“Oh you’d be quite surprised, dear. The Teeth has need of its agents in every capacity, no matter how demeaning or unorthodox the disguise.”

“Tell me the worst then.” Amelia demanded as she moved to sit on the bend, her grass green eyes still locked on the open wardrobe; or at least, her shades were pointed towards that direction. It was an odd dissonance, seeing her ease into some resemblance of comfort, only to keep clinging to that strange fixation. Where had this sudden desire to know more of her other faces come from? Shortly after their wedding, the blushing bride tried to talk to her besuited love, telling her that she had a choice on which face would be worn in private between the two of them. Amelia did not even let her finish listing the few she felt comfortable enough with sharing, saying that nothing could compare to the one she fell in love with in the first place. Had her mind changed?

“Well, generally, London doesn’t deploy us on diplomatic missions with the Elder Continent.”

“The hunters.” the Screwsman stated, nodding to herself before the Snuffer could join her in that motion. 

“Precisely.” Arabella agreed, letting the academic mask fall off into her hand. She put it back into place with gentle care, thinking it like one's Sunday best: uncomfortable, overly fancy yet still utterly necessary for formal events. Granted, after going on a loud tirade at a museum trying to present an “authentic” Elder Continent exhibit, and being banned from said museum, she was unsure if there was anywhere formal left for the face that made her itch.

“Presbyterium hunters are quite efficient at scouting out my kind. They have centuries of experience, and are able to tell even the slightest mistake we make. They’re a walking death sentence for us, not helped by the fact they have the authority to be Judge, Jury, and Executioner, all in one.”

“They make our Mayor sound merciful.” she grumbled, fingers instinctively curling in annoyance at her own mention of the bandaged politician.

“Did you just compliment Feducci? I never thought I’d see the day.”

“The man is a walking, immortal disappointment.” Amelia scowled. “I assumed he was just a failure to London, but by the sounds of it he is one to the Presbyterate as well.”

“I don’t quite loath incompetence as much as you do, Ame, but I can see your annoyance. Regardless, in this case, I’m quite content to know that he simply jails us instead of killing us, like his peers back home. Death is slightly more of a problem for us than it is for yours.” Arabella joked, a harsh, empty laugh punctuating her point. Humor so often defanged that which was too horrifying to think of normally. She looked to the thief who stole her heart, and saw her slightly paler than usual.

_Arabella, you idiot. _she thought to herself, biting her lip of her mask as a sort of punishment for her tasteless quip. It always easy to forget than in terms of death, Amelia was as untouched as a virgin. When she first heard this, she assumed it was pure skill, as there were as many ways to die in the Neath as there were rats in London. But when they discussed the topic of mortality, the normally Forthright Screwsman receded into a nervous shell. She never showed it; then again, she never showed much at all, but Arabella knew when her wife was distressed. She sat next to her on the bed, gently wrapping her hand around the rough, sinewy palm of the one who meant the most in the world.__

____

__

“Death is the enemy.”

“Death is the enemy.” the Snuffer echoed. These little mumblings and parrotings help kept Amelia anchored, but it was not enough for Arabella. She wrapped a long arm around her well dressed lover, resting her head on her shoulder. The criminal embraced the spy slowly at first, before fully welcoming her. They sat together, arms intertwined, for what felt like an hour or more, though Arabella was certain it had to be less. The English insistence that time flew past like sands in an hourglass when life is most enjoyable seemed false when she was with her own Englishwoman. Somehow, Amelia could stretch even a second into an vacation from the stresses of the Neath, as if she made a world where only the two of them existed. 

“You never finished your story.” the Forthright Screwsman said plainly, clearly living up to her namesake. The sound of her voice stirred Arabella from the near trance like state she was in, running her fingers through the curls of her wife's hair. It was more than a guilty pleasure for her; human hair felt so odd to someone who had as much hair as a candle in their natural state. Which was, of course to say, none at all.

“Would you like me to, my darling?”

A stern, yet eager nod was the only response.  
“Well…” she began, taking in a breath to try and recall just where she had left off. “Even the hunters are not foolproof. The Presbyterate is about as united as your revolutionary friends.”

“I would hope they use less dynamite than us.”

It was rare when Amelia joked, but when she did, it never failed to make Arabella break down like a giggling child. She had to be careful, as too wide of a smile risked her mask falling off. Amelia may have accepted her maskless, and even found it charming at times, but the face stealer could not help but grow flush with a sort of shame at the thought of removing the face her wife fell in love with. 

“It’s difficult uniting seventy two kingdoms. What is more difficult is educating your soldiers on the customs of each kingdom. Some of them wear blue face paint to guard themselves from our kind, others leave the umbilical cord uncut at birth.”

“How would that protect them?” the thief asked, scoffing at the oddity.

“It doesn’t, but they still think that. It’s very easy for us to try and spin a tall tale for them, essentially constructing an identity using various cultures from across the Kingdom. The most ridiculous was when I was deployed to Port Camerlian and I wore the face of a blue bearded, tattooed…”

Once more, Amelia stilled, and took a paler shade, but unlike the earlier mistake, there was no indication on what caused this. Maneuvering around certain sore spots was natural to a diplomat, and even more inborn to a lover. There were times where Arabella provided Amelia the space she needed, just as the stoic sneak avoided a common fear between the two of them; death. There were differences in how they approached the same fate, as was only natural to a pair made up of two wildly different species. Amelia viewed death as a prison in the current moment, and the enemy awaiting all in the end. Dipping her toe into the River now would do little but bind her to the Neath, something her goals and connection already had done. It was difficult for Arabella to process that; it was a great and cruel irony that the sons and daughters of Stone were ignored by her lifegiving light, freeing them from the ravages of age, but making their lives as mortal as someone from the Surface above. One could die as many times as she pleased and still live to a ripe old age, while the other could watch every city until the seventh fall, while being at the risk of a simple knife ending that long life. 

She hated thinking of how mismatched a pair of that was. Yet at times, it was necessary to face the truth, and rip the mask of ill ease it wore right off its face. It was a painful, messy business; flaying often was, as she knew all too well, but it was necessary in this moment. Like the sky looking to the grass below, blue eyes met green-behind-cosmogone, as Arabella forced herself to drop the cloak and dagger act, approaching with a bluntness she had rarely used.

“Something's wrong, Ame. I know it is. You’re not the most open with your emotions, and while I love you for that, my darling, I can’t help you when you hide it all like your eyes behind those glasses.” she began, her long fingers gently floating past the ear of the Glasswoman, brushing past a stray curl. Her grip began to form around the tip of the glasses, ready to remove them. It would have been trivial to do so, but she kept her gaze focused on Amelia, whose mouth was agape with a distinct lack of anything to say. They spoke without words, and soon enough her dreamwalker nodded, giving Arabella the permission to remove the spectacles.

Somehow, she expected tears. It was foolishness to think so, given how strong willed Amelia was, but the possibility floated in her mind. Instead, behind those glasses were eyes wide with an expression she couldn’t recall seeing on the pale face of the mirror-walker. Shame, or perhaps fear; it could be so difficult to tell, when the worry of admitting the source of shame often drove the mind to fear. She placed her wifes makeshift emotional blockade on the bedstand as gently as she would one of her own masks, and looked to the most important in her world without the wall of a false color between them.

“Please, tell me what’s wrong.”

“I...I’ve been thinking.”

“I’d be very concerned if you stopped, love.” she smirked, taking the low hanging fruit before her. It was easy snark, hardly even humor, but anything to keep Amelia at ease was a plus, and her soft laugh proved it was worth degrading herself to such a simple jest.

“When you asked me if I wanted to see you in any face but this, I refused. You’re the woman I fell in love with, no matter what face you wear, but this is the first one I saw you in. When I think of you, I see this.” her wife said softly, lifting a hand to feel her cheek. She always melted at the sensation of such a touch. Amelia walked the delicate balance between the rough, leathery hands of someone who worked their entire life, and the gentle, delicate touch of someone much more refined than the common man.

“But...I’m curious. You have a blessing. You use it everyday for London, but I want you to forget the Empress for a moment. I want you to use it for me.”

She blinked once, then twice, and a third time in confusion at what she just heard. Given how odd Amelia had been acting, a voice deep inside her, a more survivalist, paranoid instinct whispered doubt into her ear, suggesting that her beloved was off committing her horribly self destructive game of Hide and Go Seek with Victoria, the ever fashionable deviless from the Brass Embassy. It was Amelia’s soul that was always hidden, after being removed in a way that sounded far too intimate for Arabella’s liking. The act of soullessness was no bother to the Snuffer; given her natural lack of one, chastising her daring mortal for it would be beyond the pot calling the kettle black. What did frighten her though was how often that act of sprifage was used to cope with difficult emotions through the violent removal of them. The agent of the Teeth liked to think that she had since filled the void Victoria’s dangerous game brought, given Amelia actively searched to find her soul at the start of the courtship to be able to experience her passions fully, but knowing what the deviless had done in the past fueled that voice of doubt in her.

“Is that all?” she asked, smiling happily, now that the nervous train of thought inside her could pull into the station.

“What do you mean?”

“Do you really think this is the first time I’ve had someone ask me this?” Arabella giggled, as she cupped the sides of her face. Her mask slide off easily, leaving an odd mix of Snuffer and Human as she looked lovingly at her partner with a red, chitinous face topped with her mess of brown hair.

“A-ari…” Amelia protested, covering her mouth with a sinewy hand, likely to avoid showing the redness on her cheeks. The earlier nervousness and shame that surrounded the idea of being anyone but Devout faded somewhat as Arabella realized just what her wife was asking for.

“Whenever someone realizes just what my kind are capable of, they- well, to be honest, in most cases they try to kill us. But after they get over that, they often ask the very thing you ask for now.”

Arabella pulled her love close, ignoring how bothered Amelia was seeing a face normally reserved for the most intimate of moments, and how the sight of it likely sent a rush of lust filled memories into her mind. Her mandles whispered a simple truth to the one she wished to serve.

“I can be whoever you want me to be. Just give me a face, my darling.” 

The intimacy of the moment was slightly ruined as her wife rose from her seat upon their bed, pulling away from Arabella’s side. She walked swiftly to the portrait adorned walls, passing by each of the ones they had picked out together. It was difficult at first, finding a way to fill their mansion, as the lockbreaker lived a home life so steeped in in asceticism that the Snuffer could have sworn she was a monk of some sort, perhaps an exile from Godsfall, or Abbey Rock. Her lack of faith made that impossible, but Amelia managed to find some humor in the fact that the criminal lived more plainly than actual Christian between the two of them, a fact she wouldn’t let Arabella forget when she was in a teasing mood. Christianish, at the very least. Despite the wide arrange of sects she had heard of from the Surface: Catholicism, Orthodoxism, Protestantism, and a thousand other names foreign to her, the Snuffer knew only the quasi-pagan faith mixing the Stone worship of her homeland with the idea of a merciful God. It had no name because it needed none. It was simply right, and gave her purpose. Even if the importance of said purpose was directly below her loyalty to the Crown, which, naturally, was beneath her devotion to Amelia. 

Putting her mask back on, Arabella watched as Amelia strode past the dark mirror that was merely another door for her, and by it, the first painting they used to christen their home. The _Temptation of Saint Anthony _, by some Surface born named Salvator Rosa. It was a surreal thing, showing the holy man assaulted by demons, far odder in shape than the devils down at the Embassy. They were surreal, violent little things, some impish, others winged, one pig nosed, and one avian. Amelia may have given her an odd look when she first showed her the work, but it still was one of Arabella’s favorites. Creatures that fly were scared to her, of course. Until they were tested and found lacking. To see the animal she so often thought of as holy taking the role of tester and tempter by seeing if Anthony could stand up to death itself was an odd sort of irony that served as a reminder. Everyone in this life is tested, and while the trials one experiences may be painful, there is a just reward in the end. Anthony was torn to shreds by demons, and his faith stitched him back together. She lived for centuries with a loneliness that Amelia ended.__

____

____

Finally, her blonde love walked before another piece of their collection, _A Thorn amidst the Roses _, bought from the artist himself. It was a tad modern for the immortals tastes, barely even a decade old. It was purchased mainly to deny a rival the chance to own it, but since the auction, it sat in her old home at the Foreign Office, doing little but gathering dust. She still remembered when Amelia saw it for the first time. Ever the practical one, the Screwsman was obviously bored by all the odd sights she saw in the Teeth’s corner of the Foreign Office, so the sight of a painting that wasn’t the surreal landscape of the Elder Continent, or an faith based piece incomprehensible to those who did not know their practices was a welcome breath of fresh air, Arabella could tell that much, even back then, when she hardly knew the woman behind that cold face she presented to the world. Yet when Amelia saw the two women on the canvas, she froze. The sight of them must have had some profound effect on her. She assumed it was the flowers that did it; so often, Londoners missed the sight of such beauties. But Amelia’s green eyes were drawn to the faces of ladies, especially with a black mane of hair that dominated the background of the piece. It was almost as if she knew her, and was lost in the sight of of her hair like the night sky.__

____

____

Arabella had dwelled on the memory long enough to be caught unaware when she saw Amelia lifting the painting to reveal a safe behind it. As focus returned to her, she looked on in confusion, wondering just when that was installed. They had no discussion on adding a safe when they decorated the room together, and the majority of Amelia’s wealth, both ill gotten and otherwise, was kept stashed away in a Mutton Island bank account. A thief as notorious as her would have her assets seized and liquidated by the Masters and the Constables if she kept her loot in the hands of a normal bank, and it’d be bothersome for Arabella to pull the strings necessary to keep her wifes savings safe. Her confusion grew as she saw the contents of the little black box built into the wall; no jewels, no secret weapon, nothing but a framed sketch, of a woman with a stern, determined expression, full, healthy lips, and her dark hair tied into a practical bun. 

“And who is this?” 

“An ideal.” Amelia answered, looking at the frame as if it were an idol instead. Arabella moved to look upon the drawing that was apparently worth a safe, worth hiding from all, even from her. She extended her hand to hold it for herself, pausing halfway through her reach for it. Her ocean colored eyes looked to her beloved, quietly asking if she was allowed to so much as even touch such an important object. She was met with a quick, trusting nod, as Amelia cozied up closer to her, her hand holding one edge of the frame, while Arabella wrapped her grip around the other end.

“That uniform...she was a Constable, wasn’t she?”

“Was?” her lockbreaker asked, seemingly confused, or possibly afraid, as if something had been found out.

“Silly me, I didn’t realize an ideal never needed a retirement.” the spy teased, laughing softly. “So tell me about her. Who is this dream law woman of yours?” she asked with a sly smile, before quickly looking back to the black mirror that filled one of the walls with only a minor degree of panic in her eyes. “She’s...she’s not an actual dream, is she?”

“I know better than to trust the hissings and false promises of snakes.” the stoic stated seriously, before allowing herself a small smile. “And I was always more of a cat person anyways. But no, this woman is not a dream. She is an embodiment.”

“Of? You’re going to have to be a little more clear with me, dear. I’m more than happy to indulge you in anything, but if you’re looking for high minded, philosophical debates, then you may be better off at the University, not in our bed room.”

Amelia snorted a rather unladylike laugh, which only widened the grin on Arabella’s face. Bawdy humor was banal, as mindless as snark, but when done right, it could sneak into even the heart of someone as calm and level headed as her love. She was happy to make Amelia happy, though the sight of her being joyful faded all too quickly, as she took Arabella’s free hand, and placed it on the glass of the frame. The Screwsman spoke with reverence, a sort of awe that made it sound like she knew this supposed ideal personally.

“She is Law. Just law, not the illegitimate rule of the Masters or the Traitor Empress. She is Freedom, allowing the citizens to be free by preying on those who would prey upon the innocents. In a city of corruption, she is the last honest constable of London.”

“And this, this...idea of the perfect police woman. This who you want me to become, my dear?” she asked, tracing her fingers on the drawn features of this avatar of justice. It still sounded so odd to hear, knowing that this was what Amelia wanted. There was a certain irony in a rogue desiring the bondage that only a Constable could provide. It would be as if she asked Amelia to play the role of one of the Presbyterates hunters, while she played the role of the innocent Snuffer willing to give away anything for her safety.

_...on second thought, maybe there is something to a fantasy like that. _Arabella thought to herself, all too glad that her mask would cover the red flush atop her already red skin. She looked up from the sketch, able to see that her wife seemed frozen. There were the beginnings of an admittance on her mouth, but the shame inside her kept those words locked away with their cold grip. It pained Arabella to see the one who meant most to her so consumed by fear. She mimicked a gesture she had to learn for an assignment years ago; what Surfacers called an ‘eskimo kiss’. Confused as she was as to what an eskimo was, and how exactly one kissed by rubbing their nose against another, she moved in to take the first steps of one, albeit with some modifications. The foreign gesture shattered the emotional paralysis Amelia suffered from in that moment, leaving her in a state of some confusion as their noses met. Comfort came over her like a wave as Arabella pressed her forehead against hers, nuzzling close as their hair coiled together, tangling the two lovers as they stood so close to one another.__

____

____

“If this face is the one you wish to see me in, dear, it shall be done. I will wear any you ask of me, because you let me see the most beautiful face of them all each day.”

Amelia could barely manage a sentence, but it was more than enough. The sweetest words Arabella had ever heard in her long life. Simple ones, yes, but the voice behind them was as sweet as any song.

“T-thank you, Ari…”


End file.
